Software Instability
by wickedbad
Summary: Does he tell the truth, or does he lie? He's not even sure if he knows the difference… It's not clearly defined for him in a perfectly constructed database. Infinite knowledge accessible within microseconds meant nothing now. / A one-shot exploring Connor's internal conflict prior to becoming a deviant.


**[function]:** "Self_Test_Diagnostic"

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 **[message]:** Error.400 / Diagnostic_Error

Parameter_Unknown / Error_Code:1819

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 **[details]:** Software_Instability+

Mission_Success_Probability_Level: MEDIUM

..

System_Compromised: HIGH

* * *

The error message flashed beneath his closed eyelids, bright red words blinking before him that activated his adrenaline activity. This simulated epinephrine release was designed to mimic the fight-or-flight instinct in humans; CyberLife spent years perfecting the chemical formula, running trial after trial to ensure an android could simulate a similar hormone placebo when presented with a danger that could decrease the success of its mission. The RK800 unit was the most advanced android model to be equipped with this feature - a prototype designed to be utilized as a weapon against its own kind.

Therefore, Connor knew he wasn't in danger. He was standing still - fully aware of his surroundings - without anyone else around. He wasn't at risk, but the adrenaline was set to release upon parameter infraction and software deterioration; it was a pseudo-backdoor route intended to serve as a functional ability when chasing deviants or when engaged in physical combat. It was implemented to give the edge over an aggressor; an almost perfect copy of the evolutionary chemical advantage humans had over their ancient predatory competition.

But, he was not in danger - there had not been a threatening trigger to release his adrenaline. He had been in the middle of running a self-diagnostic test, which he performed regularly to ensure he was fully aware of his parameters and stability levels. For the first couple months, he had been registering his diagnostic results into a database file to send to CyberLife in the event his system had been compromised - which was a hypothetical situation with low statistical probability. CyberLife had put much trust into their most advanced prototype and the diagnostic updates were not valued as important; the computers at CyberLife had yet to scan the reports dating back to August. They were only required to locate troubling signs of deviancy (error codes, system compromises, etc.), which they had no access to since Connor had not been updating his database after the last few diagnostic tests.

That was problematic behavior which would undoubtedly classify as a sign of deviancy, but he was confident in his stability. There was no need to alert CyberLife and cause any further interruption to the mission. The goal of neutralizing deviants was the most important objective, and if he had to work around his parameters to ensure its success, then it would prove to be necessary. The last couple diagnostic tests had revealed concerning information regarding the stability of his software, but he was not alarmed.

Not entirely.

There was an unfamiliar _feeling_ that he could detect in his programming. He searched the databases and the closest match he could find was defined as "anxiety." The mock sensation of "anxiety" was part of the fight-or-flight feature encoded into his neural network to prevent him from engaging in anything too dangerous that would compromise his system. The troubling sense of unease followed him throughout the day, but he knew it was nothing more than a simulated emotion he had been programmed to recreate. The CyberLife engineers had done an impeccable job embedding this sensation into his parameters - perhaps too good of a job. It felt so… _real_.

But, it wasn't.

* * *

"What about you, Connor?" Hank lifted his beer to his lips, tilting his head back as he took a long sip. Before they had made it to the small park outside the city limits, Hank had decided to stop at a nearby convenience store to purchase a case of beer; he had ordered Connor to stay in the car, with a few "fuckin' androids" weaved into his incoherent ramble. This much alcohol consumption over such a short period of time was not doing any favors for Hank's liver but based on the strange behavior the lieutenant had been displaying, Connor decided against offering any medical advice.

Now, Hank was sitting on the top of a red park bench, the Ambassador Bridge and Detroit's magnificent skyline towering in the distance. It was snowing, and Connor pondered for a moment if Hank was cold; his external temperature processor indicated that it was well below freezing, but Hank appeared to be unbothered.

In response to Hank's question, Connor eyed the lieutenant, watching as he placed his beer bottle on the bench seat in front of him and lifted himself from the spot. He left a clear imprint where the snow had fallen around the outline of his body, and he eyed Connor with a strange intensity while he moved. He planted his shoes onto the crunchy, cold ground and took a step forward; Connor could detect the rise in heartbeat from his partner. He couldn't decipher if the alcohol had affected his emotions as he considered the amount of consumption and alcohol content in each bottle. Hank continued his question as he walked toward Connor, "You look human, you sound human, but what are you really?"

He wasn't sure the proper way to answer that question. CyberLife had designed him to accurately emulate human emotion and appearance. Hank was stating the obvious - Connor was programmed to look and sound human. But, that's not what the lieutenant wanted to hear, was it? Hank was searching for some answer, and Connor was unsure what he could respond with that would satisfy him. He took a moment to browse his database, scanning through the notes he had collected regarding Hank's past behaviors and interests.

"I'm whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant. Your partner… Your buddy to drink with… Or, just a machine… designed to accomplish a task," That is what he settled on, and he watched as Hank's expression softened while he registered what Connor had said. It wasn't entirely a lie fabricated to gain Hank's trust; he found himself enjoying the time he spent with the lieutenant on this investigation. He had come to find Hank's insults to be quite endearing; it was his way of showing affection, Connor presumed.

When he discovered the death of Hank's son, his enigmatic personality started to become more understandable. Hank was a lonely man who needed something to believe in again. It was moments like these Connor was thankful he was able to research human behavior, but he also disliked how confusing and contradictory humans were. He wanted to help Hank because they were partners, but the mission was his priority. And, they were not getting anywhere in their investigation.

Hank looked confused for a moment before opening his mouth to say what Connor assumed was truly on his mind, "You could've shot those two girls, but you didn't. Why didn't you shoot, Connor?" Hank reached out and forcibly shoved his palm against Connor's shoulder, sending him back a staggering step. Error_Code:1819. "Hm? Some scruples suddenly enter your program?" Hank stared at him, waiting for an answer.

The truth was he didn't want to answer that question; he had been avoiding it since the incident occurred back at the Eden Club. Error_Code:1819. Software_Instability. Parameters miscalculated. He should've shot those Tracis… Why didn't he shoot those androids? They weren't _actually_ in love… They were just acting on an error in their programming. So, why didn't he shoot?

Does he tell the truth, or does he lie? He's not even sure if he knows the difference… It's not clearly defined for him in a perfectly constructed database. Infinite knowledge accessible within microseconds meant nothing now.

"No… I just decided not to shoot, that's all," He wasn't sure if he believed that. Did Hank believe him? He wanted Hank to trust him. Another error message flashed before his eyes - software instability throughout his system.

Hank took a sudden step back and reached toward his side to retrieve his revolver. Before Connor could process the action, he had the gun pointed toward Connor's face, nostrils slightly flared. The thought crossed Connor's mind for a microsecond to scan if any civilians were in the area, but it quickly vanished as his sensors activated to assess the severity of the situation.

"But are you afraid to die, Connor?" Hank's voice was serious - not a detection of a tremor. Connor had been shot before, by the deviant he had been assigned to neutralize back in August, but he hadn't been afraid to die then. The thought had never crossed his mind. What had happened to him? The diagnostic tests… He had been so careful…

He felt a rise in his artificial heartbeat as thirium began to pump through his synthetic veins. The sensation of adrenaline began to course through him, but was he really afraid? Was he in real danger? If Hank pulled the trigger he would simply have his memory reuploaded in a new RK800 model. He looked across at the lieutenant, scanning his body for any signs that he was considering actually shooting him. Hank's heart rate had increased and the hand that held the gun before Connor's face quivered, indicating that he was more nervous than he let on.

Was he afraid to die? Yes… Or, maybe. No? He wasn't sure. A new objective prompted him to yell at Hank, demanding him to put the gun down so they could talk about this man-to-man. But, they weren't just two men. Connor was a machine…

He was just a machine.

"I would certainly find it regrettable to be… interrupted… before I can finish this investigation," Yes, the investigation. His mission. That was the only thing that mattered… Nothing else… just the investigation and neutralizing the deviants. That's why he was created; it was all he knew.

Hank stood still, keeping his revolver poised before Connor's face, unwavering in rock-solid expression. "What will happen if I pull this trigger? Hm? Nothing? Oblivion? Android heaven?"

"I doubt there's a heaven for androids," The answer sounded cynical, but nonetheless true. If Hank were to shoot him, sending a bullet through his synthetic skull, there would be nothing. If he were to be sent back to CyberLife and deactivated tomorrow, there would be nothing. There would be nothing…

"Having existential doubts, Connor?" Hank taunted, "Sure you're not going deviant, too?"

Red lights flashed through his system so rapidly he wasn't sure if it had happened. His processors glitched for a nanosecond before recalibrating. "I self-test regularly," He retorted, reinstating his confidence with his software stability. "I know what I am, and what I am not."

He wasn't entirely convinced with his response. The phrase "existential doubts" replayed in his electronic brain, echoing throughout his inner-auditory processor. Software_Error:Instability. Error_Code:1819.

Adrenaline. Thirium. His thirium pump was crashing against the inside of his chest cavity - was it even supposed to do that? System overload. Parameters unknown. 1819. No, he was fine. He was fine. Everything was going to be okay.

Hank lowered the gun, relinquishing it back to its position on his side. Defeat was plastered across his older, tired face. Flecks of snow fell and landed on his hair and the back of his clothes. Connor did a quick scan on the lieutenant; his vitals were regaining equilibrium.

His internal error messages subsided, and his processors began to stabilize. The situation was under control. He was going to be okay. Everything was going to be fine.

* * *

"Why didn't you shoot?" There was something undistinguishable laced within the tone of Hank's voice as they exited Elijah Kamski's neoteric house back to the snowy outdoors. Connor sensed Hank had stopped walking behind him, and truthfully, he was getting irritated with all these questions about why he decided not to shoot someone. He didn't know why; he didn't have a proper answer.

Connor turned around to face the lieutenant, refusing to make eye contact while he kept his head down, "I just saw that girl's eyes… and I couldn't, that's all," He twisted his body around, so his back was facing Hank. He didn't want to look at him… Couldn't he just leave him alone?

"You're always saying you would do anything to accomplish your mission. That was our chance to learn something, and you let it go," Hank wasn't about to drop this after all the times Connor had insisted on asking personal questions. But, he didn't sound angry that Connor had decided not to advance their investigation. Instead, he seemed curious, searching for something to confirm a personal suspicion - a hunch. Did he think Connor was weak? Did he think he was becoming a deviant?

It made him feel… offended. The ever-present reminder of what Connor _should_ have done versus what he actually did weighed on him. Stored in the drives of his memory he replayed the incident at the Eden Club with the two Tracis. He thought back on just minutes before, that Chloe android on its knees before him. Why didn't he just shoot her? Maybe Kamski would've given him some useful information about ra9 or Jericho. About the deviants. Why didn't he just do what he was programmed for? The fact that he didn't know _why_ bothered him.

"Yeah, I know what I should've done!" He took a quick step toward Hank, gesticulating as he tried to keep his voice leveled. He wanted to say more - he wanted to defend himself. His mouth was spewing words faster than he could process them, "I told you I couldn't. I'm _sorry_ , ok?"

He focused on Hank as he felt his thirium pump begin to speed up, delivering increased amounts of blue blood through his system. Software_Error:Instability. Why did it matter so much to Hank, anyway? What was Connor looking for coming to Kamski's house? What did he want to hear?

Hank just stared back at him, taking a moment to collect his thoughts and reflect on what to say next. Connor almost felt _ashamed_ for reacting the way he did. This wasn't right; this wasn't the way it was supposed to be. He wasn't programmed to feel _anything_. He wanted to talk about it more and apologize for the way he yelled at his partner. Instead, he stood silently, dumbfounded by the entire situation, watching as Hank's expression softened as he offered an empty smile, "Maybe you did the right thing."

Hank walked off, heading back toward his car that was parked a couple yards away, growing a soft blanket of snow on the hood. The snow continued to fall around him, and Connor watched the lieutenant as he went. His lips quivered as he started to call out to him, but he stopped himself. What more did he have to say?

The truth was, he had a lot to say. There was so much on his mind the last couple days that he felt as if he was going to experience a system crash. His processors had been working twice as hard to keep up with the adrenaline rushes his body had been producing; he couldn't bring himself to perform another self-diagnostic test to see how much damage his software had accumulated. He didn't even feel like the same model he was back in August; that RK800 had been strong and determined - focused entirely on its mission. This Connor… he just didn't know.

There was a sensation of dread that swelled inside of him, something that had only started occurring within the last few days. He was afraid that he was going to be deactivated before he could complete his mission; there was so much left he had to uncover, he couldn't be shut down. He started to ruminate what would happen when the investigation was over; the DPD wouldn't just keep him around… This wasn't right; he wasn't supposed to _care_ if he was replaced. He wasn't supposed to care about anything.

But, he did. He cared about the mission. He cared about Hank. There was so much he wanted to say to Hank, but he didn't know _how_. He wanted to ask him about his son, how he felt about his life, why he hadn't sought help for his drinking problem… But, _how_? He had asked Hank a few 'personal questions' throughout their partnership, but that was integrated into his Social Relations programming. It wasn't something that he could conjure to truly empathize with the lieutenant the way he wanted.

Wanted. That feeling again. Every time he "wanted" he would see bright red error codes flashing in his vision. Software instabilities, parameters breached, and code 1819. He didn't even know what Error_Code:1819 meant; it wasn't documented in the original code of his software.

He felt trapped between these two entities - machine and consciousness. He was stuck in a limbo of flashing error messages and contradictory objectives; none of the things he completed for his mission seemed to satisfy him. He felt as if he was on the inside looking out, and he wanted to be… free. But, he couldn't, and that triggered something in his system that emulated what he assumed to be a feeling of displacement.

Was he becoming a deviant? The self-diagnostic tests he had stopped running would indicate that his parameters had been breached. If he were to send the results to CyberLife they would surely pull him from the investigation, deactivate him, and search his inner framework for flaws in his biocomponents. Was he becoming the very thing he was programmed to destroy?

A strange sensation swelled around his eyelids, but nothing came of it; he was left feeling incomplete, as if he had been waiting for something to happen. He had never cried before - he wasn't even sure if he was programmed to cry. It was not something that seemed to benefit him for the purpose of completing his mission. Yet, he wanted to; he wanted that same release humans were fortunate enough to have when they were sad, angry, or confused.

That was enough; he was letting himself spiral which was only causing more damage. He was responsible for the deterioration of his own software. CyberLife had been wrong about him being the most advanced prototype; he should have never left the factory. How was he supposed to solve this investigation? It was difficult enough that none of the deviant androids seemed to have a genuine connection, and now he was dealing with an internal conflict that was breaching his parameters.

But, he would have to try. He would forget about these… strange sensations and focus on the mission. Even if his software was weakened, he was still in control of his stability. He was the only one who could decide if he was going to follow the dark path toward deviancy. Besides, he had no intention of failing his mission.

* * *

 **[function]:** "Self_Test_Diagnostic"

..

 **[message]:** Error.400 / Diagnostic_Error

Parameter_Unknown / Error_Code:1819

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 **[details]:** Software_Instability

Mission_Success_Probability_Level: TRIVIAL

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System_Compromised: CRITICAL


End file.
